For Us

3. Bullet-proof.

{Kurt}

The next morning, Kurt pulled up to the address Cary had given him, automatically checking the cars that were parked along the tree-lined street. Most were under ten years old, mid-size sedans or family-friendly crossovers. Nothing over 30K. Then again, nothing like the piece of shit he was driving now. He silenced the engine of his battered Corolla, missing his truck with a pain like a phantom limb.

What had quickly become clear when he came out was nothing had ever really been his: his father owned it all.

Carefully, he got out of his car, mindful of his head which felt two sizes too big. A handful of Tylenol had turned down the pounding somewhat, but the sun still felt like it was stabbing white-hot picks into his eyes.

Which was his own fucking fault for swan-diving off the wagon of sobriety twelve hours ago. He would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if he could remember more of the night. He'd woken up naked, with a wad of bills in his jeans pocket. Someone had been in his house, had thought to place the kitchen garbage can next to the head of his bed and lock the door. As far as he could tell, checking himself in the shower, no one had fucked with him.

Not knowing for sure was messing with him and that shit was exactly why Kurt had told himself it was time to sober up, months ago. Back to day one.

He dropped his aviators over his eyes and jogged up the porch steps to lean on the bell. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his second-favourite jeans—too loose on his ass now that he didn't have hours of football practice and a gym pass to stay bulked up. That Kurt may have been gone, but he still loved these damn pants, soft as suede and one of the only designer labels he still had in his closet.

The door swung open and he almost choked on his tongue. Jon was standing there, his eyes wide with surprise. The ball cap was gone and the rumpled bed-head Kurt remembered from high school looked genuine. Jon was barefoot, in a sleeveless tee and yoga pants, soft and loose and held with a drawstring on his narrow hips.

Kurt's heart constricted and he might have made a strangled noise. What he could only have guessed at under the bulky sweater and jeans last night was blindingly obvious in pyjamas: Jon White was all grown up and filled out and hella hot, and after vowing to shake it off and move on, Kurt was more done for than ever.

He dropped back a step, the smell of bacon wafting out from the house just to wreck him a little more. "Douglas at home?" Seriously, his voice cracked like he was fourteen. He cleared his throat. "He left something at my place last night."

Jon blinked those clear hazel eyes at him, his lips parting, and Kurt had to look away. Just then, his stomach roared with hunger, reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything resembling meat in a week, just noodle cups and oranges which he'd heard prevented scurvy.

"He's out for a run," Jon said. "Do you want to come in and wait?"

Kurt lifted his aviators, the corners of his mouth curling up—hell yes he did. He slid through the door, taking in the interior of the house. There was very little furniture in the main living space, just wide windows and a cat curled on a yoga mat in the middle of the hardwood floor. His guitar case was propped under the coat hooks in the entryway.

The smell of bacon was coming from the pan hissing on the stove top and Jon hurried to snap off the heat and set it aside. He darted Kurt a sideways glance, his cheeks a little pink. "Are you hungry? Do you want some eggs?"

"Uhhh--" His stomach was definitely sending him mixed signals on that one, hunger and nausea squeezing it in turn. "Just toast, if you have any."

Jon rifled through the stuff on the counter. "I think Cary has bread somewhere..."